


Wally's Day

by Gallifreya



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Gen, Ink, Questionable Plumbing Techniques, Suspense (kinda), body horror?, horror (kinda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 11:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12506496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallifreya/pseuds/Gallifreya
Summary: (Set before the events of the game)Wally has a very long day at the studio.A janitor's work is never done - especially when he works in a place where the solution to bursting pipes and constant ink flooding is "put in a switch to drain it every morning"





	Wally's Day

Wally grumbled as he trudged through the studio, bucket clanking at his side. “Stupid machine, stupid ink, stupid no good crappy  _ pipes-”  _ the last word punctuated by a kick to a gently dripping joint, which promptly loosed a gloopy stream of ink straight up his shin.

With a wordless noise of anger Wally rooted through his boiler suit for a wrench and jammed the pipe back into place with his other hand while he fixed the loose bolt. Wiping the mess off on his thigh, he picked the bucket back up and carried on to the area Joey had told him needed his attention.

It certainly did. How did this much mess even GET in the editing department? They didn’t even use the ink! His mop was blackened, starting to just smear the grime around instead of picking it up, and he’d emptied his bucket at least four times. He needed thinner, and a clean mop, and by the end of this he’d need new clothes too. He squeezed as much as he could out of his overall cuffs, then rolled them up and took off his shoes at the edge of the disaster area. No need to trek footprints through the studio, even if Joey would probably just use the printed marks as another Bendy gimmick - ‘walk in the footsteps of the dancing demon himself’ or something.

“You like cartoons Wally, go work for that Joey Drew Studio!” Soft socks bared to the world, Wally plapped back down the corridor towards the nearest store cupboard, mop balanced on his shoulder and grumbling all the way. He opened it, growling in frustration when he saw how little thinner there was. He’d have to get more from the animation department cupboard, but at least he could get the gunk off his shoes to get there. 

He waddled back to the editing room, propping the mop in the bucket, and scrubbed as much of the liquid off his shoes as he could. There was no saving the colour, they were already irretrievably stained black instead of the brown they used to be, and it looked like the thinner had melted the soles a bit, but they were wearable. Wally hopped about a bit as he put one on, and felt something cold between his toes. He looked down, and his steady stream of muttering became hissed expletives as the ink soaked further into his sock. There was nothing for it, though, and he grimaced as he slid his foot into the shoe with a squelch.

Empty bottle of thinner in his bucket and mop over his shoulder, Wally sighed and started off towards the animation department. They used so much ink there, his main stock of the thinners and stain removers was up between animation and music. His sock squelched with every step, and the distorted soles of his shoes almost felt like suction cups, the way they tacked just slightly to the floor when he  lifted his foot. It wasn’t a long walk, despite the stairs, and he quickly made it up there, even with fixing another dripping ink pipe on his way.

He opened th- it was locked.

 

And there was a hole in his pocket.

 

Wally groaned, running his hand through his hair, and let his head flop forward to thump against the door. Where were his keys? They couldn’t be in the editing room, he’d only been there today to get to that mess. And seriously how did that even happen? There was probably enough ink pooled around, smeared over the walls and coating the chair in that room to fill one of those barrels! What had they been  _ doing _ in there?

Well, he needed those keys. Maybe they’d fallen out while he was doing the trash cans again? The music department was loud enough to cover the jangle of them falling. Wally sighed and pushed off the door, picking up his mop and bucket again as he trudged out of the corridor. 

The music department was dark and quiet, with no sign of even Sammy. Wally wondered if maybe he should have run into someone by now, but shrugged. It was easy to lose track of time while he worked, but if he didn’t get this sorted out now it would set in and the editing room would permanently look like someone had viciously murdered a toner cartridge. 

Wally was startled out of the thought by something  _ plunk _ ing onto his head. He swiped his hand over it to see what it was, and grimaced when it came back black. Tipping his head back he saw the culprit, a crack in the overhead pipe that fed the music department’s ink supply. His shoulder was damp too, ugh, how much had it dripped on him? He looked back up again just in time for another glob to fall and catch him straight across the nose. He stumbled back, spluttering and swiping the ink off his face with his sleeves. He might be used to working with the gunk but he wasn’t  _ that _ used to it. He’d have to get this patched. He should have the materials for a quick fix back upstairs.

Right. Keys. Supply room. Scooting the mop further onto his shoulder he pressed it to the pipe to shield himself from further drops and left the empty thinner bottle to catch what it could. He turned and moved further into the music department, glancing into the trash cans as he wandered from room to room.

The music department was  _ weird _ without people. Recording rooms were left like snapshots of the day, sheet music on the stands and instruments propped by the chairs. Some of the lights were still on, and he dutifully turned them off as he went. Inky blotches marked the floors, from the pipes or clumsy folks running around at Sammy’s behest he didn’t know, and his cuffs were getting damp again as he trailed along. He tidied away boxes and barrels (why were they out like that? What the heck?) and eventually reached Sammy’s office.

Which was blocked by a six inch pool of ink.

He groaned and leaned the mop against the wall, scooping the ink up in his bucket and carrying it back to the nearest drain to dump it out. Back and forth he went, dipping the bucket and pouring the congealing glop away. At least Sammy wasn’t here, he supposed. He didn’t know whether getting stuck in or out of his office would be better, but he was sure the fallout would have been spectacular. That man sure could yell, and his temper was legendary among the animators and musicians. Maybe they could get him to do a character voice sometime? 

At last the ink was mostly scooped out, and he used the mop to shove the rest far enough away from the door that he could heave it open. Thick strands of sticky black pulled between the door and the frame, drooping and breaking as he shouldered his way in. He’d have to come by again with the thinner, and maybe some sandpaper, to make sure the door wouldn’t get glued closed the next time it was pushed shut. He was pretty sure he had sandpaper in the music department...

Right, yes, keys. He shook his head and checked the wastebasket by the desk, but while it was stuffed with scrapped sheets of music there were no keys to be found. He grumbled and turned to check under the desk, where there was nothing but more crumpled balls of paper and splatters of ink. Tidying them into the bin, he turned and left again.

The orchestra’s room was somehow even spookier. The chairs were still set up, the music still on the stands, and more instruments were left out. There was even ink in here, which he mopped up as best he could. The blackened mop left a few streaks, but it was better than the deep wet pools and blobs. He gently placed each instrument on a chair, and leaned the heavy double bass in a corner. There, at least now they wouldn’t sit overnight in any puddles. There was one of those cutouts lying on the floor too, and he snorted as he propped it against a chair. He surveyed the room and nodded to himself, continuing on his rounds.

The infirmary was less creepy without people than the music rooms, if only because if there was nobody there that was a  _ good _ thing. He sighed at the splodged ink and swiped at it with the mop, scooping it into the bucket and dumping it in the drain down the stairs. The cabinets were open, some of the contents askew, and he neatened that up and closed the doors and drawers. The infirmary had to stay clean, he nodded, nobody wanted Mr. Drew getting sick again.

On the way out, he tripped on the spare wheelchair and nearly went sprawling, catching himself on the wall as the bucket swung wildly and added a new stain to the front of his overalls and the mop nearly cracked him in the head. He righted the chair, and it immediately slumped over sideways. Great, something else to fix. Well, his tools were just upstairs, he’d have to grab them.

Keys! He checked under the chair, just in case. Well, they clearly weren’t here. Maybe he’d dropped them even earlier, up in animation? 

Trudging up the stairs again, he ran the mop along the edge of the corridor, pushing the ink ahead until he reached a spot it drained away through. The bucket clanked against the wood and he stumbled and straightened up. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been drooping, must be tired. The pumping of the Machine was louder up here, and some of the pipes jumped and pulsed with the push of the ink. It was unnerving, from a regular point of view, and an accident waiting to happen from a janitor’s. He shuddered and walked on, through the break room and towards the stairs. The punchcards showed a few people hadn’t clocked out, maybe he’d run into someone else up there.

The room with the machine was deafening, as always, and he spared a moment to squeak the little plush toy. The Machine was chugging along as it always was, and the spigot was leaking again. He paused, thinking longingly of the wrench on the pedestal, before swiping his fingers through the ink under the nozzle. It was tacky, and not too wet. Not a leak then, a clot. Crouching down, he worked the handle of the mop up the nozzle until he found the mass and gave it a good waggle. When the mop was as far up as he could get it, he pulled hard and bashed the top of the nozzle with the bucket.

There was a wet  _ slorp _ , a sound like rushing air, and he had just enough time to move the bucket under the end and catch the football sized clump of pigment. The last dribbles of liquid ink drizzled out in long strings and some of the oppressive atmosphere of the Machine seemed to lift. Grimacing, he dragged the bucket out and towards the wetroom, with that nice big drainage area inset into the floor.

He remembered installing those pressure releases. The boss had been pleased with his work, no more ink bursting over the artists’ heads - or more importantly, their desks - and he had an easy place to sluice out that wasn’t the bathroom. The blob in the bucket gurgled as he tipped it out with a splat and it slid down into the oversized drainpipe. The rest of the room was pretty ink free, and he rested the mop back on his shoulder as he cut through the artists’ room.

The door at the other end was open too, and he wandered further down the corridor to the little screening room, mopping absentmindedly at drips and drops of ink on the way. The room was relatively tidy, but for the paper strewn over the floor, and he moved forward to start picking the debris up.

 

The projector switched on.

Blinded by the sudden light, he reeled back, crashing into the wall behind him. The mop handle hit something hard with a loud crack, and there was a gush of liquid down his back and side. The main pipe joint was damaged, and pouring ink was quickly filling the room. He lurched away again, gasping for breath, and lunged for the flow button to stop the deluge. 

The ink stopped, and the room was silent save for the projector’s whir. 

He sloshed through the slowly draining ink, back to the broken pipe, and gazed up at the sheared bolts. He needed to fix that. He needed… Something. What had he come up here for?

His head drooped, and as the ink oozed down his forehead he glanced at the bucket and mop in his hands.

 

Oh, yes.

 

He had ink to clean.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Done on the premise of “what kind of ink monster would Wally make” - we decided he’d probably not be malevolent, but differed in designs and possible behaviours. I'll probably sketch him out at some point, but for now...  
> My Wally’s bucket has fused with his hand, and while the mop is not stuck on, he doesn’t put it down - he sticks it to the ink on his shoulder if he needs the “hand” on that side. He compulsively tries to clean up the ink, leaving a trail as his mop is saturated and dripping. He's slouched and slumped down, and the bucket drags along the floor and makes noise, so while he keeps away searchers (he just mops at them until he’s pushed them down a hole or ruptured them, I don’t think he knows they’re not stubborn ink clods on the floor) he’ll also attract…. Attention.
> 
> Good ending: he gets more coherent the less ink there is to clear up, until by the time you reach the surface the only thing he has left to clean is himself. He finally comes back properly as he swipes the ink from his arms and body in handfuls, first dropping the mop, then the bucket, and finally pulling the last from his face.
> 
> I tried to show the gradual transformation here - let me know how well that came through! How many of the hints and writing changes did you notice?


End file.
